The Castle Inn eBook

‘Bristol!’ Sir George muttered, passing
his hand across his brow. ‘Bristol!
But—­she is not with them. We don’t
know where she is.’

Mr. Fishwick was himself sick with fatigue, but he
knew what to do and did it. He passed his arm
through Sir George’s, and signed to the smith
to lead the way to the inn. The man did so, the
crowd made way for them, Mr. Dunborough and the servant
followed; in less than a minute the three gentlemen
stood together in the sanded tap-room at the tavern.
The landlord hurried in and hung a lamp on a hook
in the whitewashed wall; its glare fell strongly on
their features, and for the first time that night
showed the three to one another.

Even in that poor place, the light had seldom fallen
on persons in a more pitiable plight. Of the
three, Sir George alone stood erect, his glittering
eyes and twitching nostrils belying the deadly pallor
of his face. He was splashed with mud from head
to foot, his coat was plastered where he had fallen,
his cravat was torn and open at the throat. He
still held his naked sword in his hand; apparently
he had forgotten that he held it. Mr. Dunborough
was in scarce better condition. White and shaken,
his hand bound to his side, he had dropped at once
into a chair, and sat, his free hand plunged into
his breeches pocket, his head sunk on his breast.
Mr. Fishwick, a pale image of himself, his knees trembling
with exhaustion, leaned against the wall. The
adventures of the night had let none of the travellers
escape.

The landlord and his wife could be heard in the kitchen
drawing ale and clattering plates, while the voices
of the constable and his gossips, drawling their wonder
and surmises, filled the passage. Sir George was
the first to speak.

‘Bristol!’ he said dully. ‘Why
Bristol?’

‘Because the villains who have escaped us here,’
the lawyer answered, ‘we shall find there.
And they will know what has become of her.’

‘But shall we find them?’

‘Mr. Dunborough will find them.’

‘Ha!’ said Sir George, with a sombre glance.
‘So he will.’

Mr. Dunborough spoke with sudden fury. ‘I
wish to Heaven,’ he said, ‘that I had
never heard the girl’s name. How do I know
where she is!’

‘You will have to know,’ Sir George muttered
between his teeth.

‘Fine talk!’ Mr. Dunborough retorted,
with a faint attempt at a sneer, ’when you know
as well as I do that I have no more idea where the
girl is or what has become of her than that snuff-box.
And d—­n me!’ he continued sharply,
his eyes on the box, which Sir George still held in
his hand, ’whose is the snuff-box, and how did
she get it? That is what I want to know?
And why did she leave it in the carriage? If we
had found it dropped in the road now, and that kerchief
round it, I could understand that! But in the
carriage. Pho! I believe I am not the only
one in this!’